Fatherhood Freestyle: Mother-Love Makes a Man

Growing up, my family was typical of lower income New Orleans households in that one house held several branches of the family tree; my mother and I lived in my grandparents’ house, as well as my aunt and her two children.  One of my earliest memories is from my third birthday.  I see a corner of a bed, huge in my vision with faded red lines which moved toward me as I pulled on it in an attempt to lift myself up.  And then my Grandmother Frances’ bespectacled face appears, smiling and comforting as she pulls me up…no easy feat ‘cause by all accounts I was a mini Buddha-baby.  My grandmother always looked out for me.  I always felt I could count on her.  She would always slip me candy or some spending money, would take my side in little arguments.  She could fuss at me, and minutes after, console me.   When I became a teen, she even attempted to help me organize my love life.  If I was out with a girl, and another one called while I was out; she would find a way to discreetly inform me of the call, with raised eyebrows and code words.  The fact that she would do this in front of my date was especially cute.  She was also deeply religious, praying twice daily, morning and night, sowing the seeds of spirituality in me.

Then there’s my Aunt Henrietta.  She was strong and firm, plain and matter of fact.  I was quite afraid of her in my early childhood.  None of us wanted to be on her bad side.  She was my mother’s older sister and as my mother worked different shifts in her job as a nurse, my care fell into her hands from time to time.  While my grandmother was my guardian angel, saving me and aiding me, my aunt seemed to be my persecutory devil; I couldn’t get away with anything!  She could always spot my lies, know that I snuck a snack, and had an uncanny way of feeling you get off the front porch before 3pm from two rooms away.  She was also the best cook in the house and I still long for her Sunday pot roast, potato salad, cornbread and desserts.   My aunt was fair; her justice was true.  What I saw then as persecution turned out to be preparation, and her no nonsense habits are reflected in the way I have parented my own children.  As I type this, I realize my aunt was only 5, 2’, but she was a giant in my life.

My mother, Theresa or Terri to her close friends, was many things to me.  She was a young mother, 19 when I was born, and the passion of her youth was quite evident.  I remember the hugs and kisses I would get when she came home from work, her fierce protectiveness of me when she felt I’d been wronged.  I have a clear memory of feeling loved by my mother; it seemed that in her eyes I was a gift, and there was no finer or smarter or cuter boy with curly hair on the planet.  She would talk to me about my dreams, how to carry myself and how to treat a girl with respect.  To this day I still receive compliments on my chivalrous ways of holding doors and having women walk on the inside of the sidewalk; and I know that is my mother.  I showed a talent for art as a child, and my mother encouraged it and would support me despite the grandness of my ideas.  She nurtured my intellect and my love of reading, buying me comic books initially and then magazines, paperbacks and novels.  While she was not a big reader, she always allowed me time and supported me in pursuing those things that seemed important to me.  But above all, my mother encouraged my speaking my mind and taught me the importance of listening.  Like my daughter, I’m pretty clear I can talk your head off at times.  But I can count on one hand the times my mother scolded me or shut me up when talking.  It didn’t matter if I was 3 or 13 or 33, she would listen to me.  She tolerated my endless questions, my protests when I viewed hypocrisy and even what could be described as back-talk when I did not understand or agree with her instructions.  As a parent I now realize the depth of patience she showed…I still have most of my teeth!

These are only three of the women who have shaped and helped me become the man I am.  Without any doubt they are the biggest contributors, the foundation of my relationships with all women.  On Mother’s Day I will remember them and smile.  And, everyday, I hope to honor their legacy and impact on my life to make them smile.

Fatherhood Freestyle: My Story….Not My Father’s

I love women. I can find something attractive on almost anyone of them. It could be their eyes, their smile or the way they carry themselves with confidence. I don’t have a particular type or shape or color preference. Long hair doesn’t turn me on more than short, curvy bodies more than straight, tall over short. Intelligence and a sense of humor goes a long way though..

I was raised by women, have raised women and some of my closest friends are women. I’ve worked as the only male in treatment center for females and survived and thrived. Women have shaped my life, contributed to the man I’ve become and the values I have.

Whenever I would envision the way I would begin the story of my life it always began this way, with most of these words. For one thing, the words are true; women have played a huge role in my life. And I am clear that another reason why is my father.

My father and I have never lived in the same house, have never played catch, shared a joke or a laugh. We have never watched a sporting event, taken a walk or watched a cartoon together. And while many adults could make the same claims for many reasons: “my father died when I was 2” or “he ran away when I was born” or “my mama wasn’t sure who my daddy was”.. I do know who he is. I know his name and occupation and where he lives. His physical absence from my life played as big a role in my shaping as the women who were present. And notice I said his physical absence; emotionally he has been and remains one of my major influences.

As the women in my childhood taught me and scolded me and fed me, my father’s effect was subtle, almost unnoticeable until my teenage years. This increased as I grew into manhood, became a tidal wave as I became a parent to my daughter, and exploded in a crescendo as I became a father to a son. I can remember the joy and wonder I felt as I looked into my daughter’s eyes for the first time, the pride and relief of knowing she was safe, healthy and whole. The comfort I felt in feeding her, changing her and making her laugh. To this day she still takes my heart to the top of the clouds just to be in her presence. The birth of my son added a new wrinkle and sense of wonder; while my daughter was clearly related to me, my blood, my offspring- my son was a mini version of me. We shared more than similar physical features, he wanted to play sports, to wrestle, to fight, to play catch. We used our fingers to hold objects in the same way, crossed our legs and hummed while eating something special. And as I became more aware of these similarities and shared traits, that’s when my father’s presence or lack of had its biggest impact; I couldn’t understand. I couldn’t understand how he could leave, how could he know I existed and not been in my life. How could he not play catch, take a walk or share advice with me? Whereas not having my father in my life growing up was accepted as a fact by me, an unalterable truth, becoming a parent and seeing my son and knowing how I felt about both my children, that fact became absurd, insane, truly, beyond any words I can use.

And I have tried desperately to understand. I have thought and thunk, asked friends and strangers, spoken to clients and read books. I even went to my father and asked him directly. “Well, your mother didn’t want me around” was the first deflection, followed by “and to be honest with you, I’m not even sure if I am your father”. And that was the beginning of my enlightenment and release. At that moment, the utterance of that blatant and obvious lie, I realized that whatever I was looking for, I would not find it in him. There would be no guidance, no embrace, no shared experiences; as alike as we were in appearance, our build, our hands and that slightly up tilted Bob Hope nose, we were completely different in our hearts, our view of ourselves. Whatever motivated him to speak those words, fear, guilt, shame or ignorance, I’ll never truly know (and I can only wonder if he knows). As the father to my kids some of my biggest fears have been ‘Will I be good enough? Can I give them a different life from the one I had?’ Only time and their testament will declare the truth of that. But I know that my children and I share things he and I will never have. The memories of stitches and casts, cakes and wrapping paper and the swell of pride as they walked across various stages marking the advance of their own lives and accomplishments. When I look at them I feel a peace in knowing these are my children, and I am their father.

Fatherhood Freestyle: When Do You Introduce “The Next”?

I’ve been single since 2000, and in that time my kids, current ages 26 and 19, have been introduced to a total one of my girlfriends! Have I only had one girlfriend? Heck no! But, only one made the cut to actually meet my kids. Let me clarify that. Early on I decided that there would be no revolving door of dates/women/boos or spoogies that my children would come to know while I searched for the next great love of my life. I remembered movies like Claudine, Kramer vs Kramer and even The Parent Trap. No one was meeting my kids unless they were someone–someone special, someone who would be around for the long haul.

I remembered my own childhood with my mom’s string of suitors…”This is Mr. Joe,..This is Harold…This is Uncle Bobby – who was clearly no relative I’d ever seen. I remembered that they all were of no significance to me; they were just the one at the time. I did form attachments to some, the ones who appeared to take a genuine interest in me, and who weren’t too creepy. But, even that became something for me to temper and be cautious about, because just ‘cause I liked them didn’t mean that my mom would keep them around. So, I’d meet and greet, superficially interact and watch to see how long they would last. And, I resolved that my kids would not have that experience.

The reactions to my position were varied, much to my surprise, ranging from agreement,–“I fully get that and support you”; to not so subtle manipulation–“I’ll know you love me when you introduce me to your kids”; to flat out rejection–“I’m not going to be second place behind your children.” Keep it moving, Sister! These experiences were confirmation for me that I’d made the right choice. I needed to keep these women at bay until I met Ms. Right, the one who would be my next wife.

So six years went by before I met and attempted to introduce my kids to a woman who met my criteria. On several levels I thought it was time, six years had gone by, several candidates had come and gone, and I was ready to broach the subject. In fact, my son had given me permission two years back saying, “ Dad, if you and Mom aren’t going to get back together, I think you should date; ‘cause I want you to be happy. In fact, how about her?” as he pointed to some attractive woman at the ATM. My son, gotta love him. So, when I met X who I felt was special and could be the one, I decided to act. I called my ex first to inform her of my decision and put her on alert for possible reactions from the kids. I also felt this was the right thing to do out of respect. I didn’t owe this and I wasn’t asking for permission, but this was a decision that would affect our children for whom we both cared. I then told both of my kids I had met someone and wanted them to meet her. They agreed, and we arranged to meet for dinner.

As the time drew closer, and I called my son to tell him I was on my way to pick him up, he admitted to me he was a little anxious about this and asked me to take my time. Five minutes later he called to say he was ok and ready. He was obviously nervous at first but appeared to loosen up and relax. On the other hand, my daughter, who’d agreed to meet us at the restaurant, never showed up. She didn’t respond to calls or text messages, and it was months before we came to some resolution on this matter. Without going into the details, it was clear that time alone hadn’t healed all wounds.

The incident validated my fears about how my kids would accept being introduced to another woman. But are my fears valid? I accept that the introduction of a third party to children after a divorce can be and usually is a slippery slope, but does delaying contact help? My rationale had been to delay and wait until there was someone significant. But another reason was my own fear of screwing up the delicate peace and appearance of balance I had with my children, as I lived outside of ‘their’ house.

I don’t believe I was wrong for waiting and limiting my kids’ exposure to the ups and downs of my dating experiences. But,I wonder if I also created a ‘that’s my daddy monster’ in the process. I’m beginning to feel that normalizing the reality of mom and dad having other people in their lives through discussion and maybe even addressing it in counseling, if that is appropriate, could help.

In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, I’m no expert; I don’t have THE answer. In fact, I’m looking for as much dialogue and input as I can get. See, I’ve met the next Ms. Right and I…well, you get the picture. Please offer thoughts, opinions, comments, I’ll even take bad advice…

What/when do you think is the right way to introduce ”The Next”?

Fatherhood Freestyle: Tales from the Fortress

Not long after my divorce and the early adventures of my initial separation, I came to live in the first place of my own. I was in the lower 9^th Ward of New Orleans, a place previously known as one of the poorest and most segregated sections of the city. After Katrina, it became an icon, a symbol of all that went wrong with New Orleans and the federal response to that catastrophe. But that’s another story for another blog. Believe it or not, my house was a dream, a two bedroom shotgun, completely renovated inside, polished hardwood floors throughout, ceiling fans, exposed brick fireplaces, 12-foot ceilings and 6-foot windows with wood slat shutters. On the outside, old faded wood, chipping paint, just the appearance you’d want in that neighborhood so as not to scream, “Come and break in!” to my not so gainfully employed neighbors. Inside I felt safe, at peace and for the first time since my divorce, really comfortable when I came home from work.

But the drive home from anywhere was always depressing; the 9^th Ward was, and by all accounts, remains one of the bleakest parts of New Orleans. As I drove home I would see the poverty and the kids hanging out, sitting on porches or abandoned cars, just waiting to see what would happen next, who would happen next. It was also on the opposite edge of the city from the rest of my life– work, friends and the better attended parts of the city. All of these facts contributed to my new digs having very infrequent visitors. Other than my son on weekends, (my daughter was away at college) there was seldom a reason to dirty a dish or glass other than my own.

So, I gave my place a name it deserved, one I found fitting in many ways: the Fortress of Solitude. For those of you not blessed with geekdom in your childhoods, this was the name of Superman’s home in the North Pole. It’s where he would retreat to ponder problems and reflect on his experiences. It was his sanctuary. It was in this sanctuary of mine that I truly began to grow up. Never mind the fact that I was already 40ish, had been married for 19 years and had been a part of raising two kids.

During my childhood I was ‘forced to mature’ in some ways by my mother’s chaotic life style, as a single parent with an off and on drug abuse problem and by the absence of positive male role models, notable exceptions being my Uncle John, and one of my mom’s suitors who took the time to teach me about manhood and respect and chivalry. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I realized that he was a Heroin addict; I thought he was just a sleepy guy. In some ways, my circumstances of caring for and co-parenting with my mother in managing our house and raising my younger sister robbed me of a ‘normal’ childhood. The irony is that it also set me up for an abnormal adulthood, a point of contention I couldn’t see until my time at ‘the Fortress’.

When I was married, I had in my wife a co-scapegoat, someone to share in the blame for failures, unmet responsibilities and problems in general. I could point out her lack of support for my not meeting a deadline at work, or my not realizing my full potential in my career. But when I lived alone, one fact kept popping up; I was responsible. I was responsible for getting up on time. For washing, ironing and keeping up with my clothes, keeping food in the house. For remembering to pay the bills in a timely fashion ‘cause when you don’t, the power, water, cable and phone go OFF!

It’s easier to point the finger at anyone besides ourselves for our problems and lack of progress. It requires someone other than ourselves to blame and their willingness to engage in the debate with us. They don’t even have to fully accept blame, just be a willing participant in the dialogue! Living on my own exposed many of my issues and started me on the path to identifying and working through them. I feel it’s helped me in my relationship with my ex and been invaluable in helping me to be a better parent to my kids. And here, 9 years later, I’m clearly still a work in progress (as I’m sure many would be too happy to point out!) but progress is being made.

So here’s a question for you Super-boys and Super-girls:  How many of you have spent/ could benefit from some time in “the Fortress”?

3 Words of Advice on Parenting from the “Other” House: Just do it!

I am the product of what was once described as a broken home, not an accurate label since something has to be whole before it can be broken.  My parents were never married; and for the first 9 years of my life, I had few if any thoughts of who or where my father was.  I remember a few questions which popped up when I compared the lives of my classmates to my own, but these questions were usually brushed off by my mother, and in truth, I wasn’t that interested in the answers.  And, when my father did make an appearance, it was more about seeing his old flame than his not-so-new son.

As I grew and became more observant and aware of my life and my mother’s past, I began to feel the void of not having this figure in my life.  Or, more accurately, I had this shadow figure in my life–the hint of a presence but nothing I could put my hands on.  In the interest of making this long story short, let’s just say that from the events and feelings I had about my upbringing and childhood, I made a commitment in my early teens that no child of mine would have to repeat my experience. There would be no absentee dad, occasional visits and less frequent presents.  I would be there to be the best parent that I could.  So, when my high school sweetheart and long-time girlfriend and I became pregnant, despite some flutters of doubt, getting married was not much of a question. I’d made my commitment in the midst of all those raging hormones and teen angst. What else could I do?

Twenty years and a few marriage counseling sessions later, we were divorced. The picture that I had dreaded and worked so hard not to have was realized in full color. My daughter and son were in one house, and I lived in another.

I made an effort to see them as often as time would allow. There was no schedule or regular pattern to be followed. I would drop by during the week after work, pick up my son, who was nine at the time, every weekend, take my daughter to the movies, and play chauffer on her dates.  I called and tried to be as strong a presence in their lives as I was when we all lived in the same house.  But as I’m sure many of you in my situation have discovered, that is an illusion as elusive as an oasis in the desert; in sight but out of reach.  And, while my ex and I weren’t involved in a battle royale of who’s the better parent, using the kids as chips or pawns, we were clearly not on the same page on several issues.

One of my biggest frustrations was the sharing of information, or lack thereof. As the custodial parent, my ex recieved all the conference notifications, permission slips, party invites, etc.  This hit me more than you might imagine, because prior to this I proudly bore the title of ‘Snack Dad’.  Every month, when the kids had to provide snacks to the class, I was the one spreading peanut butter on the rice cakes, making sure that everyone got seconds, making sure that the celery was well cleaned and that the various fillings, cheese, dressing and the old standby, peanut butter, fit neatly and looked appealing.  I was a hands-on dad being pushed, exiled and condemned to the sidelines.  And, I couldn’t seem to get her to understand how I wanted to be given a copy of everything!  It was the least she could do to allow me to still feel like a parent.  Despite my awareness of my feelings and real efforts to be the father I envisioned, I would feel the pain of competition for my kids’ affection or worse their acknowledgement of my existence and relevance to their lives.

But, as I learned to work through my feelings and continued to strive for some sort of balance, I achieved what I was looking for by just doing it… In a moment of clarity I finally realized that you can’t just want to be a parent–you have to actually do it! You are and never stop being a parent. It’s up to you to define what that looks like.  I didn’t just pick up my son on weekends because I could or should, but because I wanted to. And, when we were together, it was like we were home in that place of the past; we played, talked, ate and cried.  When I brought my daughter to a date or appointment, we spoke and discussed the same things we did in her bedroom or in our old living room.

Being out of the house is not the same as being in the house. But in, out or wherever, we are all still parents, for better or worse, and our kids reap the benefits or carry the burden of our actions. So, just do it!